


The Coming of the King

by Rosie_Rues



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-20
Updated: 2009-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Rues/pseuds/Rosie_Rues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <div class="center">
<i>And I, the last, go forth companionless,<br/>And the days darken round me, and the years,<br/>Among new men, strange faces, other minds.</i>
<br/></div><p>Long after all the sorcerers he knew have fled Camelot, a wolf comes to Arthur's fire with a message.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coming of the King

It was winter when the wolf first spoke to Arthur, six years after Merlin had left Camelot, two after Morgana had vanished in the night.

Winter, and twelve of them to take down just one clawed hag, and no shelter now but a shallow mountain cave; winter, and frost already heavy on the ground, his knights huddled so close for warmth that their red cloaks overlapped like petals even as Kay, clawed by the hag, moaned faintly in his sleep; winter, and Arthur had taken the watch, standing at the cave’s mouth to peer into the night. His back stung from the heat of the fire, and the icy air blowing in bit at his cheeks.

The clouds parted around the moon, and suddenly he could see the land spread out below him, black woods and white fields, a stark and dangerous country. The shadows had deepened over the last few years, evil men grown more desperate and good men more cruel. He often forgot what hope felt like, how it had warmed the spirit on a cold night.

Then the wolf came walking out of the shadows, its pelt shining silver under the moon. It stalked straight towards Arthur, with a purpose that would have seemed uncanny even if its eyes weren’t glowing gold. He put his hand to his sword, but didn’t draw it.

Then the wolf said, “Arthur.”

“Are you out of your admittedly tiny mind?” Arthur demanded, torn between incredulity and relief. “You do realise my father has ordered that you be killed the moment you show your face in this country?”

The wolf gave him a wide, happy grin that would look gormless on a poodle. “This isn’t my face.”

“Even after all these years, your idiocy still astonishes me.”

The wolf thumped his tail on the ground. “Why, thank you, sire, it’s nice to see you too.” Then, in a quite but still clearly audible tone. “Prat.”

“Imbecile,” Arthur retorted without thinking about it, and though he was righteously and quite rightly angered to see Merlin here, there was a sudden, pale warmth in the place where hope used to be. “What happens if Sir Kay or one of the others wakes up and sees a talking wolf?”

“Oh, Kay’s all right really,” the wolf said, blithely oblivious to the fact that neither disgraced manservants nor dangerous sorcerors were supposed to call knights of the realm by name. “Bit snippy, but who can blame him?”

Arthur just gave him his most disbelieving glare because he had somehow forgotten how bloody annoying Merlin could be. Bloody annoying and Camelot’s most wanted escaped sorcerer (and, yes, Arthur was still a little angry about that, but he’s supervised the building of too many pyres over the last few years to act on that anger).

“You can’t say things like that, you know.”

This grin shows considerably more teeth than the last one. “And what are you going to do about it? Burn me?”

It was fire, in the end, that destroyed the increasingly delicate fiction that had kept things safe. Fire, and Merlin in the middle of the Great Hall weaving it through his hands to keep a passage open for everyone to escape another vengeful sorcerer, this one a frail girl with hair like dandelion fluff, only survivor of a once great family sent, one by one, to the pyres. Fire, and the mist that rose that night, after Merlin, sooty and shaking, had been dragged away: fog that rose through the streets of Camelot to blanket every street and cling in every corner. It had even risen from the floors of the castle, making it easy for Arthur to creep down to the cells once he was sure his father was busy berating Gaius (he had never really feared for Gaius, because the old man was untouchable in a way that only people who knew truly ugly secrets could be).

Of course, by the time he had reached the cells, they were empty.

“Arthur?” the wolf asked.

“What do you want?” he snapped back. Why was Merlin here now, after six years of silence?

“To talk to you,” and Arthur had never seen a wolf roll its eyes before. “Look, maybe we should take a walk, because I don’t actually want your knights to wake up and see me, and you’re shouting a lot.”

“I am _not_ shouting!” Arthur said, at a perfectly moderate and controlled volume.

“That’s your parade ground voice,” the wolf pointed out, and really Arthur hadn’t felt this young and tempted to squabble for years, not since long before Morgana vanished, an hour ahead of Uther’s order for her arrest.

“Are you trying to lead me away from my men so someone can creep in and surprise them while they sleep?” It had been years, after all, and people change.

The wolf’s ears went down and its head drooped and its eyes were big with reproach. “I would never betray you.”

“Because doing sorcery behind my back was so loyal?” Arthur snapped. “Stop that, you look ridiculous.”

“I saved your life,” the wolf said indignantly. “More than once, actually.”

Arthur had actually worked that out pretty fast, once he had the chance to think about it. In retrospect, Merlin had been horribly indiscreet, and the sheer implications of all that thoughtless self-sacrifice had given Arthur more than one sleepless night since. He has no intention of talking about that now, or possibly ever, so he said, “Fine. Go and wait over there. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The wolf faded back into the shadows and Arthur went and woke Gawain up to take over the watch.

“Do princes not just piss in the fire like normal men?” Gawain grumbled, glaring at him blearily, his red hair on end.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at that, because Gawain had some claim to be a prince himself, through some insanely complex clan politics and intermarriage which meant he was related to just about every royal family in Albion and his father could probably take over large chunks of the outer isles without anyone having grounds to dispute his claim. He was also the closest Arthur allowed himself to a friend these days.

“I wouldn’t want you all to feel inadequate in comparison,” he said, smirking for the sake of it.

“Really, sire,” Gawain muttered, rolling to his feet, “I’ve seen your dick and you’re the only one who’s impressed.”

Arthur went to hit him but Gawain, ever irrepressible, ducked away and went to take his place by the fire, leaning on his sword as he looked out over the forest. Arthur left him there and went to find the wolf.

Even with the moon out, it was darker under the trees. Ice-laced leaves crunched under his feet as he peered into the shadows, scattering specks of frost across the dark leather of his boots. He couldn’t see the silver of the wolf’s fur, and for a moment he wondered if this was all just a waking dream, some teasing sorcery carried on the wind to latch onto those who refused sleep.

Then he saw a glimmer of gold again, and realised that there was a man standing in the shadow of one of the bare oaks.

“Really, an idiot,” Arthur breathed.

Merlin grinned at him, and what had looked ridiculous on a wolf – well, still looked ridiculous on him, but rightly so. Arthur stomped forward and grabbed him by the neck, pulling him into a rough embrace before hitting him in the side of the head for old times’ sake.

Merlin said, “Ow!” and then hugged him fiercely, all long arms and welcome warmth on a cold night.

Arthur peeled him off before it got too unmanly, getting a good look at him in the process. The straggly little beard was new, and there was a scar curving up his jaw, long-healed yet new to Arthur. His hair was longer, curling at his neck. There was still something of the wolf in the way he shifted his shoulders under Arthur’s regard.

Then he said, as if it was a surprise, “You look older.”

“Whereas you have obviously forgotten how to shave,” Arthur retorted, hands still tight around Merlin’s forearms.

Merlin winced a little. “Yeah, well, I got out of the habit. Not much call for razors in the Caledonian Forest.”

“What were you doing in the Caledonian Forest?” Arthur asked. “Communing with nature?”

Merlin looked a little lost, pulling away from Arthur. “No. Well, something like that. Almost.”

“ _Merlin,_ ” Arthur said, sounding more exasperated than he felt. Standing here, Merlin was becoming real to him again, not just a memory of insolence and blinding smiles or a name to remind himself, when the monsters came and the pyres burned, that not all sorcery was evil.

“Right, well, yeah,” Merlin said. “I’m here for a reason.”

“Oh, I’d assumed that you just couldn’t go without my company for another day,” Arthur replied, drenching every syllable with sarcasm.

“Er,” Merlin said, suddenly looking about as young as he did when he first got thrust into Arthur’s service.

“Merlin. Spit it out.”

“King Hengist of Kent is dead,” Merlin said, and Arthur felt the little warm flame of hope inside him begin to die.

“Has his crown gone to Horsa?” he asked, mind already at work. Horsa was Hengist’s brother and warlord, brutal and brilliant. If Kent was closer to Camelot, conflict would be inevitable years ago, but they had the broad moors of Mercia between them.

“No. Horsa’s dead,” Merlin said, and he looked his age now. “Hengist’s son Ochta sailed home in time to claim his father’s crown. He executed Horsa this morning and started marching towards Mercia at noon.”

“He doesn’t have the men,” said Arthur. Kent was strong, but even his father only considered them a threat to Camelot after sleepless night and too many glasses of wine.

“He brought ten Saxon clans back with him,” Merlin told him. “He’s promised them land.”

“He’s broken the _pax_?” Arthur said, incredulous. For five generations now, Albion had survived under that fragile shield: no king of Albion, even those descended from the first wave of Saxons which had broken on Albion’s shores after the fall of the legions, would invite the Saxons back, as either mercenaries or settlers. Vortigern had tried it here in Camelot, forty years ago, and the harrowing the other kings of Albion had laid down made Uther’s campaign against sorcery look compassionate. Vortigern’s own line had been annihilated, and the general who had driven the last Saxon from Albion had been granted Vortigern’s crown: Ambrosius, who had been Uther’s stepbrother.

“The _pax_ has been failing for years,” Merlin said, and he was looking old again. “There were Saxons fighting in both lines at the Battle of Arderydd.”

Arthur ignored that for the more important point. “Rheged and Elmet border Kent. They won’t let this pass – even ten tribes isn’t enough to break past the armies of three kingdoms.”

“You don’t understand.” Merlin was actually shaking, not just shivering from the cold. “Ochta’s a Saxon. He grew up on the far side of the sea. He doesn’t have the same stupid scruples as kings here!”

“Merlin-”

“He has sorcerors!” Merlin burst out. “Battle wizards – almost a hundred of them!”

Arthur’s hope died quietly.

“You need to arm your southern border,” Merlin said. “Get ready. Bayard can’t-”

“Don’t try teaching me tactics, Merlin,” Arthur snapped. He needed to find a discreet way to present this news to his father and then start raising the militia in the southern half of the kingdom.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare presume, sire,” Merlin said, dripping sincere condescension.

Arthur glared at him. “Shut up. Damn it, my father needs to know this now. I have to wake the others, get on the road – how are we supposed to fight wizards trained for battle? Don’t answer that – you know my father won’t allow-”

“I’m not saying anything,” Merlin pointed out, holding up his hands. “Go, Arthur. I understand.”

Arthur turned to stride back towards his men. Then he hesitated. “Merlin. These six years – what have you been doing? Are you all right?”

“Oh, just wandering here and there,” Merlin said, voice expressionless. “And I’m great. Brilliant, really.”

“Merlin.”

There was a pause and then Merlin said, “I’m better. Better than I was. Really.”

Arthur turned back towards him. “What in-”

“Nothing,” Merlin said quickly. “Really, nothing. Monsters, bandits, evil sorcerors. Battles. The usual sort of thing, but I’m _fine_. Go and save the world.”

Arthur glared at him, but even after all this time he recognised the pure stubbornness on Merlin’s face. He wasn’t going to get more of an answer. “Fine. Now get out of here before somebody shoots you. And, Merlin, really, don’t set foot in my father’s kingdom again – not as yourself, not as a talking animal, not at all.”

“Spoilsport,” Merlin muttered, but when Arthur turned round to glare at him there was only a grey wolf slinking away into the forest. Arthur shook his head and hurried back to wake his men.

The Saxons were coming, with wizards in their battle array, but for some insane reason Arthur could feel hope again. Something was beginning here, under a winter moon. The clouds had disappeared, and the full cold of the night blazed down, lighting the forests and the valleys with a pure and dangerous light. The world was changing, and he knew that Camelot could no longer support the hatred that torn at her strength, not if she was to survive. The old order would change, giving place to new, and there was an exultation in that, one he would never voice.

And then he was bellowing for Gawain and Kay, Bedivere and Palamedes, Lionel and Balin, to rise up and ride for Camelot.  



End file.
